


A Walk Among Tombstones

by frostbitter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6370948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitter/pseuds/frostbitter





	A Walk Among Tombstones

These tombstones were taller than he remembered. Or maybe he was suddenly shorter than usual. Either way, his fingers brushed against the tops of the tombstones as he walked, brushing off snow. There was a chill in the air, he knew, but he couldn’t feel it. He was dressed in black robes, thin and billowy. The abnormality of this should’ve concerned him but it didn’t. He was the Dark Lord. Abnormality was his specialty.

Down he continue. Down the path. It was just that, a path – not one predetermined by architects, but one he created. Graves were aligned neatly, in endless rows and columns, far apart enough for the slim wizard to slip through, the tails of his robes curling around the tombstones like smoke before slipping away.

He had no goal, no end point. He was just walking, one foot after the other, with the unexplainable knowledge that he would come to his destination soon enough. A veil of fog surrounded and infiltrated the graveyard, making it hard for Voldemort to see more than ten feet in front of him, by him, or behind him. He relied on the use of the tombstones to stay on the path, as well as his heightened senses. He was alert in a way, but relaxed, as if he knew his feet would take him to where he needed to be, one way or another.

And, soon enough, he arrived at his first goal.

He came to a sudden halt and turned right, to the tombstone beside him. He moved in closer and then stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Was he supposed to dig into the grave? Push the tombstone to reveal a hidden passage? Cast a spell?

On impulse, he reached into his robes and withdrew his wand. Pointing it in the direction of the tombstone, he whispered _“Lumos.”_ A bright, white-blue light came from the tip and Voldemort knelt down. Focusing the light on the ground, he found that it was lightly coated in snow, and a few taps on the top had the snow falling off. Lifting the wand, he focused the direction on the light onto the center of the tombstone and read the name in passing.

Merope Grant  
_July 15th, 1907 – December 31st, 1926_

He sprang to his feet, his knees nearly giving out from the surprise. He stepped back, mouth agape and eyes wide. A jumble of thoughts ran through his mind, too tangled to be sorted through. His emotions ranged from anger to sadness to confusion and he swallowed, a slightly quivering hand rising to focus the light on the tombstone. But it wasn’t a trick of the light. There the words were, carved in stone, clear despite the fog.

The sense of direction had left him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Tom.”

Voldemort turned around.

She wore robes that skimmed her tiny form and pooled at her feet. She had the hood up and it shield her face from him when she looked down; all he could see was her hair, black, like his used to be. It fell down her chest in tangled curls.

She lifted her head and gazed at him. Silently, they stood there, looking at each other. He was at a loss for words. Void of all emotions. He had no idea what to do but to looked at her and be subject to the way she looked at him. She was more than a few feet away, but he felt the heat of her gaze, saw the gleam in her dark eyes. 

He knew who she was. Or, rather, who she pretended to be. He may have never known his mother, but he knew. This was not her.

She took a step forward. “Tom.”

His arm rose, pointing the tip of his wand directly at her chest. “Who are you?”

The corners of her lips tilted up. “Don’t you know?”

“You might look like her, but you aren’t her. She died years ago.”

Her hands, palms up and fingers spread out, moved in opposite directions. “You would think that after all you’ve seen and done, Lord Voldemort, that you would be open to things beyond which you are used to. But you are right. I am not your mother.”

His arm did not waver. He continued to stand still, pointing his wand at her chest. “Then?”

Her smile widened. “Would you believe me if I said I was a ghost?”

“You said that I should be open to things beyond which I am used to. So I guess that means that I should believe you.”

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you will believe me when I tell you that your mother says she misses you.”

Despite his intention to show no emotion, he flinched. Anger seeped into his voice. “Whatever game you’re playing at, lady-”

“Not a game. Merely a message she asked me to pass on.” The Ghost of Christmas Past tilted her head, gazing intensely at his face. “She worries about you. About this dark path you walk on.” She took a step forward. “It’s not too late, Tom. Not too late to turn back.”

His hand jerked up as she moved closer, and closer, until the wand was an inch from her chest. The words for the spell rested on his tongue, but he couldn’t say them. Not her. _It’s not her._ But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

She moved forward again and the tip of his wand slid through her. He looked up to see her staring into his eyes, a gentle expression on her face. Slowly, her skin turned to smoke that moved out, away from her, disappearing into the fog. She deteriorated until she was nothing more but a pair of dark eyes that continued to gaze at him, until they, too, turned to smoke.

>i>It’s not too late.

Voldemort stood there for a bit. Time moved differently, so the question of how long was unknown. He felt that it was only for a moment, but when he finally shook his head and turned back to the path, he felt a sense of relief in his muscles. Moving helped, and moving was all he could do, and so he resumed walking.

He did not look back.

\--

After walking for a while, he felt the same feeling he felt earlier. He stopped. Once more, he was flanked by tombstones, but instead of turning right, he turned left. This one was also lightly coated in snow, and he bent down, smacking it once, then twice. Then he lifted his wand and looked.

Severus Snape  
_January 9th, 1960 – May 2nd, 1998_

He felt the same as he had felt when he first gazed upon his mother’s tombstone. He had been expecting to see a familiar name. But not this one.

“Tom.”

Once more, he turned to see a hooded figure, tall and lean. No inch of his face could be seen, but Voldemort knew who it was. “You.”

The man lifted his head. Severus said nothing, merely stared at his master.

“But it’s not, is it?” Voldemort lifted his wand and moved forward, his eyes narrowing even more than usual. “It’s not you.”

The ghost didn’t skip a beat. “No. I’m not Severus Snape.”

“Then why take his form? And why did the other one take the form of my- of Merope?”

The ghost looked down the path. Voldemort followed his gaze, but saw nothing. “We figured if we took the form of people you are familiar with, then you would be more willing.”

“To?”

“Change,” the Ghost of Christmas Present said simply.

He nearly snorted. Instead, he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The ghost moved forward, closer. Too close. The real Severus knew better than to do so. Revulsion rose in his throat, but he found himself unable to speak. Or move.

Dark eyes peered into the wizard’s. “There is still good in you, Tom. Buried beneath all the hate, but it’s there. Let it through.”

Voldemort straightened his back, set his jaw. He spoke through clenched teeth. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know more about you then you realize,” the ghost said, his head turning back towards the direction of the path. “I’ve seen your soul, Tom, or what’s left of it. It’s too late to reverse what you’ve done, but it’s not too late to change your path,” he looked back at the silent wizard. “It’s not too late. But if you continue down the dark path you are on now, then it will take you somewhere where you can never return from.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. And so he met the gaze of the ghost, who stared back. They stood like that for a moment, the ghost searching the man for a sense of emotion, but he found none. With a sigh, the form that was his loyal friend turned his back to him.

“Continue, then. Perhaps the other one can change your mind.”

While the female ghost’s deterioration was slow, this was fast. The male ghost was gone after two blinks. Voldemort continued to stare at the spot where he stood for a few seconds, then shook his head and turned back to the direction of the path. He continued to walk forward, brushing past the tombstone of Severus Snape without a second thought.

He did not look back.

\--

He walked the path until it ended. It happened suddenly; the Dark Lord had been on auto-pilot for a while now, letting his legs move on their own, putting one foot in front of the other and then repeat. His mind was relaxed, curiously, instead of puzzling over the last two encounters he just had. And, in a way, he was conscious enough to question himself. _Why are you acting so calmly? Why are you not concerned?_

But any attempt to think about what was going on only resulted in a blank mind. Confused and frustrated about the entire ordeal, he didn’t even realize the path had ended until his shins smacked straight into the tombstone before him. With a curse, he moved back and kneeled over slightly, glaring at the tombstone. The pain wasn’t too overbearing, more surprising than anything else, and so he shrugged it off. The feeling of arriving at his destination was there and so Voldemort sighed, shook the tombstone a few times, and focused the light of his want on the engraving. In a vain attempt to prepare himself, he swallowed, shook his head, and leaned in.

Tom Marvolo Riddle  
_December 31st, 1926 – May 2nd, 1998_

He had not been prepared for that.

The wizard stumbled back, his wand hand wavering. The light bounced all over the place, then was moved back to the tombstone, and it continued to shake as Voldemort read the writing over and over.

The end date. He hadn’t thought much of it when he saw it on Severus’ tombstone, but on this one, he saw it, clear as anything else. Many things weren’t making sense, but this was the most puzzling of all.

The year was 1979.

“This doesn’t make sense!” The wizard groaned.

“Tom.”

Once more, he stood, turning around to see a man standing before him, tall and broad, hiding beneath the hood of his robes. But he knew who it was.

“You,” he said.

Dumbledore lifted his head and gazed at the man. “Me,” he replied.

Voldemort didn’t even bother with his wand. It wasn’t the real Dumbledore, he knew, but still, his blood boiled. He just glared at the ghost, hands curled into fists. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

Dumbledore looked past him, in the direction of the tombstone. “With the tombstone?”

‘With everything!”

“Like your mother told you-”

“That,” Voldemort hissed through clenched teeth, “was not my mother.”

 

“I’m not talking about the Ghost of Christmas Past,” the Ghost of Christmas Future said calmly. “I’m talking about the message she gave you. The one that your mother gave to all of us.” He took a step forward. “She worries about you.”

“What game are you playing at, ghost? What game are you _all_ playing at?”

“This is not a game, Tom,” the ghost sprung forward. Although the ghost was transparent, by will of force, Voldemort was turned back around, towards the direction of the tombstone. “This is not a game,” he repeated, pointing a pale hand at the writing. “This dark path that you walk will lead you to your demise.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“You’re right. I don’t. Which is why we’re here. Your future isn’t set in stone, Tom. Not yet. You still have time.”

“Time to do what?” he practically groaned in frustration.

“To change. You can’t reverse what you’ve done. But you can stop now, before it’s too late.”

He turned his gaze back to the tombstone. To the end date. “And what if I don’t?”

“Then you will die,” the ghost said, his voice finding its way into the wizard’s ear. “Alone and unloved.”

And then he was alone.

His feet took over then, as they always did when a ghost left. He walked, and he walked, and he walked. Until he woke up in a cold sweat, with the moon still high in the sky, a fierce pounding in his chest, and the weight of the dream on his mind.


End file.
